Country Lass

by Emma Lawrence

Mud traipsed through your living room,
Dirty, smelly, unholy, corrupt
Sweet brown mess, all over your cream carpet.
I’m a dirty country lass in a fouler city.

My tangy words slaughter and kill your
“Correct enunciation.” Squinting you ask
Me to repeat myself, slowly. But
I’m a dirty country lass in a fouler city.

The sweat on my brow offends you,
And a rose-smelling, country-killing
Handkerchief is thrust in my face. No thanks –
I’m a dirty country lass in a fouler city.

You try to smile with painted-on lips,
Even though you have eyes of cold glass.
You see the wild twinkle in mine –
I’m a dirty country lass in a fouler city.

Frowning at the crease in your lavish sheets,
You are revolted by my stories of
Lovers in the barn, straw in my knickers.
I’m a dirty country lass in a fouler city.

Stripping me of my dungarees and shirt,
Of those filthy Wellingtons. You strip me bare,
And stop, gasp, as you see my red, rural, country heart.
I’m a country lass in a foul city.